Pre-Xmas roundup

It occurred to me today that the absurdity and madness of the looming holiday season is already well upon us.

For starters, I have a younger brother (Dave) who is, chronologically, 48.

However his relatively recent behaviour in this 5th decade of his life would make innocent bystanders think he's maybe ... 13.

And, a girl.

He has gotten progressively more bent out of shape, super-excited and giddy about Xmas earlier and earlier each year, since ... well, his wedding. Which was a fair number of years ago.

(Quick aside: This could well explain everything ... as I recall getting a phone call from him in the weeks leading up to his wedding, and I suddenly realised that my heretofore cool, hip, fun, never-had-time-for-silly-bullshit brother had been talking to me for longer than 5 minutes about ... problems dealing with ... obtaining a wedding cake.

A ... cake.

For ... a wedding. HIS wedding. He never even LIKED cake all that much. Now he was sweating like a heroin addict over some damn thing or another that was causing the cake to be ... hell, I don't know. Nor did I care.

I DID however recoil in horror, and tried to change the subject during that call ... and it wasn't working. Who was this strange creature, and what had he done with my brother?

I quickly determined it was him ... yet, he was seemingly beyond rescuing ... at least, not without a bucket-load of alcohol and some fun, manly activities. Like drinking bucket-loads of alcohol – and nowhere near anything remotely wedding-like or, yule-ish going on.

Much incredulous. So mystery. Super huh?

I knew something was up. He'd clearly been neutered by some evil force – whether it was his girlfriend, his gig, or society in general. But how?

This was the "Pull my finger!" fun dude I'd known and loved for many, many years. What had HAPPENED to derail him so dramatically ... so ... BADLY!?

This was not my brother. This was ... something else entirely. A pod ... a clone. The mere shell of my brother with his brains sucked out.


This was ... a Japanese schoolgirl going shopping for "Hello Kitty!" clothing, and matching handbags.

Just ... no. The horror ... the horror ... 

So. Fast-forward back to present time (or more precisely, the beginning of November). And now, instead of a phone call, we're on FacePlant, trading jibes and japes and whatnot ... and he's yammering on about how crazy-giggly he was about Xmas.

I thought: "OK, it's either time to send out a search party for his testicles ... or, they're LONG gone, and it's time to look into some frilly blouses and knee-socks for him for stocking stuffers ..." (Not that there's anything WRONG with that. But if that was the case, enough with the fence-sitting ... he needed to exit the closet pronto, and OWN that bad bidness!)

New Zealand is no different than anywhere else in this day of modern, 1st-world country setups around the world. Sheer Xmas greed and commercialisation has taken over, and the moment Hallowe'en (here it's Guy Fawkes Day) is over, out come the Xmas displays in stores. And the TV ads ... and the infernal, insipid, maddeningly cloying Xmas music on store sound systems, elevators, and yes – even some busses.

In the good old days, my brother and I, and my good pals, ignored and/or mocked this sort of thing. We were far too cool to ever buy into it ...

Now, my kin ... my once-cool brother ... was posting shit on Facebook about willingly stopping into an Xmas store on a road-trip from Hicksville, Ontario to Fishing Camp, Nova Scotia ... to willingly (I know I've said that twice, but seriously ... he WILLINGLY did this) shop for Xmas decorations.

No clue if there were Hello Kitty options in this store ... and if there were, I don't want to see any photos of same.

So in an attempt to get him to snap out of it and get a grip ... I posted a few public service announcements on FacePlant ... to try and get him to see the error of his girly ways ... to perhaps de-program him, as he'd clearly been captured and brainwashed by some eerie, un-manly, froo-froo Xmas Cult of some sort (otherwise known as "wives").

Or at the very least ... to maybe re-ignite that male masculine gene that had clearly been either stomped and squashed and mutilated, or (horror of horrors!) completely removed.

At this writing, it's still late November, and according to Official Man-Card Rules, there shall be no mentioning, considering, thinking about, or even LOOKING AT Xmas-themed things* until the first week of December.

(* These 3 exhibits  being the only acceptable exceptions).

* Exhibits A, B, and C: The only Xmas-themed items
a man is allowed to look at before December.

There are a few GOOD aspects to all this early Xmas foolishness
As for early sightings of GOOD things having to do with the yuletide season ... it appears the judge at the helm of the ongoing Rob Ford and his Merry Henchmen – The Legal Proceedings in Toronto has decreed: all information, photos, video and evidence (considering the sort of messy, swinish things Ford has been up to ... ewww!) pertaining to the case(s) and charge(s) against Ford and Lisi and whoever else might be embroiled in all the clownish and illegal shenanigans there shall be released to the media, forthwith!

December 6 is reckoning day – that's when it's all meant to be revealed. Scribes, pundits and columnists for the Toronto Star are nearly beside themselves, waiting to see what juicy stuff is about to be unleashed. As, of course, are WE!

Wake up, Mr. Ford. It's time for your crack top-up!

This could well be a day of fun and frivolity (and ceaseless mockery) that surpasses all the prior Rob Ford stuff that's been in the news (and on late-night comedy shows). I can't wait!

And even MORE good things!
There's been a flurry of fun, beer-soaked (oops, I mean, themed) events of late that have made all this other mawkish and maudlin November Xmas shite tolerable.

Hashigo Zake had a good "new release Tuesday" beer event this past week, with tea-infused (yes, tea) beers from Yeastie Boys. And my pal Andy over at Behemoth Brewing announced not one, but TWO new beer releases are coming early in December! So it's out to the craft bars we go again ... this time it'll be Goldings Free Dive.

One of the two fine new brews being unvieled by
Andy Childs of Behemoth Brewing next week!

As well, Hashigo Zake's annual "Santa Session" is next week (they get a pass for invoking that name, because ... well, beer!) – wherein, those of us who were wily enough to swarm the bar when it was announced, and get signed up to the limited guest list (hey, it's a small bar) will be treated to a session of serious swilling ... we get to pound down all the interesting and unique bottled beer (imports and locals) they haven't managed to sell. This is a popular event, and usually results in plastering (see what I did there?) a merry grin on the faces of all involved.

News out of Tuatara Brewing HQ was also brilliant this month: they have become the official importers of Oregon brew-meister Rogue Brewing's fantastic line of interesting, unique, and sometimes downright absurd beers. (Look down a couple of paragraphs – wherein I talk about filming a movie of my quest to go find these new Rogue beers at a local supermarket!)**

Yep – a beer made with
the live yeast festering
in the brewmaster's
manly beard!

Summer's here!
The weather here has jumped up a few notches into full-on summer climes over the last few weeks, too. That's always a nice feeling ... it's warm here at the best of times, and for me, an expat Canadian, "winter" here is just a slightly cooler few months (yet still warm, for a man with maple syrup in his blood), where the most pesky thing is: attractive women "dress for the calendar". Or more precisely – they wear less-revealing clothing if the temperature is lower than 25ºC. So of course, we really, REALLY like it when it jumps up to 25º, and higher.

And even more beer fun ... 
I've been deploying the movie-recording aspect of my new iPhone 5S (the latest version of this marvellous magical tech toy) to film a few ale-related things.

These bad boys are the TOTAL bomb for IPA-style beer ...
and likely any other kind of beer. The staff at Hashigo Zake
lovingly refer to them as the "Butt plug glasses". 

There was this new, scientifically designed IPA glass released by a California company (nay, I must call them what they really are: Dedicated professional beer researchers!)

These glasses look like they were designed upside down – with the small bit at the bottom, making them look pretty tippy. But that's OK ... that small bottom bit is gnarled, so that the hoppy ambrosia that is New Zealand IPA gets refreshed, by swirling around those gnarly bits ... every time you tip the glass up for a sip. It's fun to watch, and even MORE fun to drink! The last sip is as fresh and alive as the first!

I made a movie about my own highly scientific research session here. My research assistant Squeak the Wonder Cat is also featured!

** (I'm in the process of assembling a longer and more detailed movie, wherein I go shopping at the Thorndon New World for the new Rogue beers that are here now ... and, to highlight the absolute, total beer-shopping mecca that is this grocery store, to show to my poor downtrodden beer-drinking pals in Ontario, Canada – where they still have to shop for beer at government-controlled bunkers).

Old Home Week
Oh and on a related note – the first suburb I lived in here in Wellington was Thorndon. It's here where one branch of the fantastic New World grocery store lives – it's fantastic, due to it having the biggest and best selection of craft beers around ... and Thorndon is also home to two fun pubs I used to regularly visit when I lived/worked there ... the Backbencher and the Thistle.

The Thistle Inn: oldest pub in New Zealand. Revamped and
upgraded from its former and smelly "dingy dive" days.

I've just been alerted by the smart, funny, and all-round swell guy and Wellington beer writer, Neil Miller, that both these pubs now feature proper craft beer on tap! Which means, of course, I'll have to venture back over to Thorndon – a whole 5-minute bus ride from my office – to check this out.

The Thistle's main allure is, it's the oldest pub in New Zealand. When I first moved here in 2001, it was a dive. Not just a quaint old place ... a TOTAL dive. I distinctly recall my first time walking past the place ... the side door was open, and I looked in to see a magnificent mess of a dump of a bar. It was ramshackle and hideously trashed, and you could SMELL it from the sidewalk. Two rumpled old men – complete curmudgeons – were perched on wobbly stools at the dingy bar, looking like they fell out of the 'hungover street-bum tree', and hit EVERY branch on the way down.

Rustic looking yet clean, The Thistle's reno includes
a glass floor with a view down to the old beer cellar!

These days the Thistle has been revamped and remade into a fine looking establishment. They tuned it up but left it looking "old school", just like it was from the time it was first built. It's rustic, yet clean. There's a big glass section of the floor, looking down into the old original beer cellar. Best of all, there are some black & white photos on the walls showing what the Thistle looked like back before the huge earthquake in the late 1800s, where a LARGE chunk of land rose up out of the sea, completely re-shaping Wellington's waterfront and harbour ... prior to this quake, the shoreline was right at the Thistle's door. One photo on the wall shows some folks who had paddled up to the Thistle's door in canoes to go drinking.

Our current PM next to his satirised puppet.
The actual PM is the one on the bottom.

Around the corner from the Thistle and across from Parliament (but nowhere near Funkadelic) is the Backbencher. As the name suggests, this bar is often infested (erm, inhabited)  by politicians. But also, by normal, likeable people.

Like the Thistle, Neil pointed out that the Backbencher now features some top-end craft NZ beer. And despite two debilitating fires over the last couple of years, the place is up and running, and is still festooned with its trademark draw: the well-made yet mockingly satirical puppets (BIG puppets) that satirize well-known NZ politicians and sports stars.

What does any of this have to do with Xmas? Not much ... except I recall working a contract gig (two actually) in Thorndon in the mid-naughties, and both bars were deployed as cheeky locations for liquid lunches around Xmas, in mid-December.

The Thistle was especially marked as a destination for Friday afternoon, après-work drinks – aside from the many offices in the area, there is a University across the street, and every branch of the NZ military has offices in that zone too. So it was a cool mix of business types, students, military folks, and contract workers like me and my shady mates.

So how to end this meandering, lurching, unfocussed bit o' blogging? Well, like it started, I guess. My brother has three days of completely wrong, silly, girly-man time left in November to continue his insane ranting about ... well, you know.  If he posts again, he shall be mocked ... then I suppose it'll be OK, as December will be upon us.

Then all manner of Xmas hell will ensue.

And there's the December rumpus. Things will undoubtedly get far too Xmassy for my tastes, as usual ... except for the one positive thing that goes down in my office gig here. There is an unwritten law that stipulates every woman here who can bake, MUST bake, and bring said baked goods into the office for all to sample and judge. It is a contest ... a competition between all the bakers, to see who can garner the biggest raves for their efforts.

And the winner? No contest ... it's ME of course! Nom-nom-nom.

Now I must get back to something resembling work ... and/or watching a hockey game on my computer.

Oh and hey, looking for some more grins? Mosey on over to Brew-Ha-Ha and see what Don's up to today (besides drinking and taking incoherent notes on the beers he's chugging). ... seems he's haggling with Hemingway, über-drinking some Unibroue 17, and getting KO'd on some King Heffy.

Until next time, I'm still

Low-hanging fruit: Rob Ford

"Rob Ford".

He has become that sort of comedy gold-standard so fast, his name – just by itself – is hilarious.

You don't even have to TELL a joke. You just have to say his name, and people start giggling.

Sure, it's low-hanging fruit. Easy pickin'. A massively fat, stupid piñata. And we've got a 5-foot thick baseball bat. And we're not blindfolded.

But who in their right (comedy) mind is going to pass this up?

NO ONE! Including me!

The whole scenario is so comedy-rich that it has ALMOST become TOO much! 

Every

Lookin' sharp there,
Robby-Tommy Boy!

day it's something new ... something more absurd ... more unbelievable. Can just ONE man be this moronic, this clueless, this much of a bumbling, drunken, drug-addled, hair-trigger-tempered, lunatic, mush-mouthed ...

Yes. Yes he can.

Ford's a Daily Show regular segment now! But
it HAS to be testing the limits of even Jon's
creative genius, and budget!

Even the brilliant Jon Stewart on The Daily Show is having trouble keeping up! He's regularly and ceaselessly focussed onto each day's shenanigans from Ford (which are painfully easy to find online, as they are gleefully reported in ALL the Canadian news outlets, and immediately picked up by all the American ones).

But even he's having trouble staying "current". That's how fast and furious the crazy updates are happening ... so long as Ford is awake and loose in public, the insanely hilarious stories come streaming in.

Stewart needs to start doing an hourly update, to stay on top of all this ... to remain as fresh as he can ... maybe like producing a Live Ford Follies Blog or an As The Ford Drunkenly Happens Twitter Feed.

Hell, I'd subscribe!

The Ford segments on his show are getting longer, though! Last night's episode devoted well over 8 minutes on Robby-Tommy Boy (here and here). And Ford's hijinks spill over into jokes about OTHER dickheads-on-parade on his show (and all the other late-night TV comedians too ... to be fair, Leno and Letterman and Kimmel and Maher and EVERYONE is mining this rich, fat vein of pure comedy gold).

Jon's team of graphic art and FX pros are being kept on
their toes, producing fresh new images
of the rolly polly fella on a nightly basis!

Which means ... and, here's the rumpus ... writing a blog about Ford is going to be "dated history"  the moment I press "Publish". The split second you watch those two Daily Show clips I linked to up there ... you'll be at least 24 to 48 hours behind the times. Maybe more! I'd highly recommend following the Toronto Star and the CBC on Twitter if you really want half a hope in hell of keeping up!

Ford is the thing scientists (and beer drinkers and fun seekers) the world over have been working towards, and seeking, for millennia ... he's a walking, talking, stumbling, bumbling, burping, farting, hard-drinking, crack-and-weed-smoking, perpetual-motion absurdity machine, rolling and ramming around at top speed. ALARMING speeds, in fact.

For a big fella, he's surprisingly agile on his drunken, stumpy little cartoon-like legs ... so ninja-quick, in fact – racing and careening madly along to his next embarrassing spectacle, that in some cases, he barrels over unwitting bystanders. Like the female Toronto city council member he trampled yesterday ... in his obese, ungainly, and uncoordinated attempt to get to some guy who was loud-talking him from the viewers' gallery. He seemed not to see the two dozen or so other people in his way ... including that one poor woman ...

He 'talks tough' with some of his remarks, sure. But in that first (now famous) video where he's drunkenly ranting about fighting some guy to the death? He's out of breath and staggering and nearly out on his feet just TALKING about fighting. If he ever managed to heave his bulk into an MMA ring (as it was suspected he was ranting about), he'd be unconscious from his OWN lack of ability to send oxygen through his body. Never mind actually taking a punch.

But back to the comedic onslaught of material over the airwaves, and the net ... we barely start laughing at some new Ford Folly report, when it's followed up by yet ANOTHER massive blunder. Or flounder. Or 'Fordian Slip'. Hell, he may be inadvertantly setting a new TV comedy standard here!

This is the way network TV comedies SHOULD be. A constant, ceaseless, relentless onslaught of only the best, the most brilliant satire and mockery – 24/7! (Netflix is coming close, by releasing entire seasons of recent comedy-genius shows like Orange Is The New Black, and Arrested Development, all at once).

Which is why Twitter is such a brilliant thing. I rarely Tweet stuff myself (I do re-tweet funny material I get sent), but I do have a good number of comedians plugged in to my Twitter to "follow" ... and more recently, I have added reporters and columnists from the various Toronto and Canadian news outlets too. It's instant and constant feeds, up to the minute, real-time, "oh it's ON NOW, mo-fos!" ripe reports of the crazy, blockheaded, stupid, clueless stuff Ford continually does.

What else can you say about a guy with such a massive ego (and gut), who's such a megalomaniac, AND a sociopath, that he honestly thinks he's done nothing wrong? In the same breath, where he admits to smoking crack, and buying marijuana, and driving drunk (all illegal things in Toronto/Ontario – in fact just the possession and use of crack cocaine by itself is a FELONY offense, with a maximum jail term of 7 years) ... he then says he's still a hard-liner on drug use as a crime ... and then he waddles merrily along, thinking that apologising for HIS abject and repeated criminal behaviour is his way out.

Um, Fordy? How about ... NO, you crazy Canadian bastard! (With apologies to Dr. Evil and Goldmember from that glorious Austin Powers movie). You can't have it both ways. You broke laws. You did the crime, now do your time.

Speaking of which ... how much of a bunch of feckless Keystone Kops is the city of Toronto's police department? How much crime does a fat Mayor have to do, and CONFESS TOO, in public, on TV, before you assclowns leap into action and arrest his ample ass?

But I digress ... not only is Ford trying to keep his title of Mayor (which is all he has left as of this writing ... the city council has "stripped him of his powers") .... um ...

Hmm. Powers? Do huge, ungainly, monumentally stupid, crack-smoking, blackout-drunk, racist, homophobic, violent, sociopathic rednecks have powers? I'll have to consult both the Marvel and DC comics' encyclopedias, and my team of experts, to see what sort of superheroes might have all THAT as part of their tragic backstories ...)

Oh yes. I was making a point. Wait. It gets better. This "Mayorin' job" isn't enough for Ford. This century's Fatty Arbuckle has recently mentioned he wants to take a run at being Prime Minister.

Of Canada.

No, I'm not joking.

Yes, that is classic denial. (Not the river in Egypt ...)

He's apparently banking on people rapidly forgetting that he's done wrong. (Oh, my bad ... he thinks he hasn't done anything wrong. So to follow along this convoluted path of random neuron firings from a clearly deluded and socially inept man ... he's obviously banking on the Canadian voting public to come around to his way of thinking ... that he's just a good ol' boy, a regular Joe, who HASN'T done anything wrong.

It's just a bit of good-natured fun, all this rampant drug and alcohol abuse. And the other stuff, like the violence, sexism, racism, and homophobia. But please ... don't YOU PEOPLE toke, ingest other drugs, pound alcohol, drunk-drive, be racist and homophobic, or be as violent, wacky and crazy as he IS ... just tow the line and DO as he says).

This is classic, platinum-level comedy!

Can it get any better? Maybe ... is there a precious metal kind of level ABOVE platinum? Like maybe titanium?

Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, invented a whole new
element. But let's be clear here: his character is a
genius-level super-smart sciency kind of guy.

Or, like Tony Stark did in Iron Man 2, maybe Ford will INVENT a new element!

Let's help him out here, and give it a name for him now, before he even gets there.

Let's call it ... UnElectium. Or maybe LockedUpAndCommitedIum.

But please, Ford, don't stop. This is just too much fun. I'm an expat Torontonian, living in New Zealand, and I live for these sorts of blazingly, agonizingly funny outbursts on a regular, ceaseless, daily basis. Thanks to the net, the tireless work of people like Jon Stewart, and the dedicated journalists of Toronto ... I'm kept up to date. It's hard work just READING all this stuff!

I for one (along with every other comedian out there) would LOVE it if you kept flailing away at it ... fighting the good (drunken, stoned, angry, crazy, sexist, racist) fight ... please, Mr. Pseudo-Mayor, continue comically waddling around, shooting yourself in the foot (and I wonder ... how far out past that massive gut does he have to reach to do that?)

Keep up that valiant struggle (with reality, and ...) to get back that ultra-fun Mayorin' job you clearly love so much (after all, it isn't nearly as much fun having drunken, stoned coke parties with hookers in your office, or out in public with your staff and your homies at bars ... if you really aren't the mayor, now, is it?)

Any idiot can do that.

Any guy who's just Joe Public, a regular guy, can just buy a bunch of booze, drugs and hookers, and have at at it. But does anyone really take notice? NO!

It's takes a uniquely special sort of cretin to make it to a level of public office, and THEN turn it into a wild, crazy, Hunter S Thompson-level public spectacle, witnessed all over the world!

It's so much more of a special thing when you are Mayor of the Biggest City in Canada, and then you throw down and go hard, with those kinds of zany parties, now isn't it? Plus it's easier to pick up the chicks when you're all 'The Boss' an' shit ...

So I think I speak for us all here ... don't stop believin' ... you ain't seen nuthin' yet! ... fight your way back, back to get it back ... take a page out of Rick Astley's book and NEVER GONNA GIVE IT UP ... then hoist yourself up on that bandwagon (check the supports on that sucker first!) and campaign for Prime Minister! 

Oh, PLEASE try that!

It's like Xmas morning every day with this guy!

 It'd be like watching the train-wreck that was Sarah Palin running as the US VP candidate ... and to a slightly lesser extent, witnessing "Uncle Hairdo", Mitt Romney's delightfully pompous and clueless campaign to be "all Presidentin' an' shit" in the Good Ol' USA ... both of THOSE loopy idiots thrashing around in public, merrily swapping feet in and out of their mouths ... never ever "getting" that the world is not laughing WITH them ... but AT them.

Absurdly, there's a small and dedicated bunch of loonies and redneck-crackers in Toronto who STILL continue to BACK Ford. (That's because if you stand in FRONT of him, he's likely to spill a drink, yell at you, feel you up if you're female, blow crack smoke in your face, then fall over and SQUASH you!)

These guys think Ford's doing a GREAT job!

Reports out of Toronto have this elite group of Ford Supportin' folks as high as (see what I did there?) 25% of the electorate. That report also says these people are not the sharpest bowling balls in the tool shed ... most of them never finished high-school.

This dovetails nicely into something that Toronto is, and has been, famous for ... for many decades now. The city and the highbrow people living there have been just busting ... GAGGING ... to be taken seriously as "the New York City of Canada". For a long, long time.

Well! I think you can sit on down and take a break, folks. You've succeeded!

Job well done! You're now as train-wrecky and gob-smackingly American as all get-out! Not only do you have a deranged, drunken, drug-addled cretin in charge of your city (and you voted him in!) but you've got the unending, relentlessly maudlin sort of "daytime talk show" coverage of your happenin' town, on TV and the net, all over the world!

They say there's no such thing as 'bad' publicity. In many cases, that's right.

But it does make me wonder: You Torontonians can't be this thick-headed. I suspect there's an ulterior motive ... a master plan at work ...

Is all of this just a well-planned, sneaky, underhanded method of trying to tap into that sweet, sweet Amsterdam tourist money?

Sadly that'll never work. While you can legally smoke weed in Amsterdam cafes, there's a whole other level of coolness and style about that city that Toronto will never attain.

Here's a hint: Don't vote in as Mayor ... then venerate, worship and defend ...  a grotesquely overweight, completely chuckle-headed (and blackout drunk, and drug abusing) moron with overtly obvious addiction, megalomania, sociopathic and self-control issues.

Or do! Otherwise, what are we going to have to laugh at?

Hey, and that could be a tourist draw, too!

Why don't I offer up my services as logo designer for your new Tourism Campaign!?

Woo hoo! Where do we sign?! This looks better than Vegas!

Yes, indeed.

Well now before I sign off, let's not be all greedy and piggy and ... well ... Fordish.

Once you're done having a laugh at the Jon Stewart clips, be sure to click on over to my mate Don and his recent shenanigans at Brew-Ha-Ha! This week he's neck-deep in some tasty beers (of course) ... and he's at odds with the Vegas people about something or other! I'm sure that's just drunken confusion .... Oh, and also be sure to knock on Glenn's e-door too, over at Shwa Stories – and demand an update! He's been slack!

Until next time ... I'll be ... in absurdity ...

Thermodynamics

The heat is on.

Or rather, in ... in me, to be specific.

In a risky move to fly in the face of an earlier Blog claim where I said I

Billy Crystal played "Miracle Max"to perfection.
No clue as to whether he too was as
hot as me, under all that latex.

wouldn't blather on about medical issues after covering them almost to death ("He's only MOSTLY dead!",  to quote Billy Crystal as Miracle Max from The Princess Bride), I'm going to mention an odd tangent / side effect from
the BKAs I underwent (Below Knee Amputations) a few years ago.

I seem to be ... hotter now.

Sadly, that doesn't mean I'm more appealing to the ladies. No, I mean ... I'm hotter. As in, a big steamy sweaty pile of superheating molecules. Yeah, I know ... here I go again, bringing the sexy!

They told me this might happen ...

"They" being the nurses and physios who blitzed me with advice and ideas and grandiose plans for me doing exercises while I was still a drug-addled, befuddled mess in the hospital ward bed.

Among all the things they said (and I immediately forgot), I somehow remembered them telling me (following my 2nd leg being removed): "You will now be burning as much as 400% more energy when you do simple things like standing and walking around."

My first thought was: "Cool! Now I can get the same effects and benefits of running a 10 K just by wobbling around the kitchen getting a beer from the fridge!"

Sadly I was to learn that was not QUITE the case. What it really meant was, my energy would drain heaps faster while trying to do basic things ... like wobbling to the fridge on a beer quest.

Then I noticed, in my amusing and ungainly attempts at moving from point A to Fridge and back, how much warmer I got while engaged in doing this. Then I noticed I was warmer all the time, even just sitting still.

The Human Torch could
ignite himself at will, shoot flames
at villains, and even fly.
So far the best I can manage
is soaking a t-shirt down
like I've been standing in
the rain, with malaria,
in just under 10 seconds.

Being a superhero / comic book fan, I of course immediately thought I might be developing a super power, maybe like Johnny Storm – aka The Human Torch of Fantastic Four fame.

Wrong again ... unless you call sweating like a feverish hog on acid in a sauna a "super power",  this was not to be. About the only plus factors to being ceaselessly warm (even warmer than I usually was before all this medical mayhem ensued) are: (1) I only had the heat on in the house once this past "winter"; (2) I wear shorts exclusively now, inside and out; (3) I never wore a jacket once all "winter".

On the down side, I'm uncomfortably warm at what passes for room temperature here in Wellington. And surprisingly, I'm usually in some sort of room – or taxi cab, or city bus. But more on that in a moment.

I bought a digital thermometer for my desk at work some time back, with the intention of measuring the temperature in the room to compare to a thermometer reading of MY temperature ... back in the days when a hike in my body temp usually meant I was succumbing to infection yet again. So I needed to know: was it me, or the lizard-people fucking around with the thermostat again?

I still use the thermometer on my desk ... only now it just demonstrates that 22º C (72º F) – which is

That would be me there, in a typical day at the office.
Someone has the thermostat set for "desert effect". Either
we're growing cacti, or raising iguanas.

pretty much universally agreed as a comfortable room temperature for most humans – feels to me like a session in a supernova sauna down in Dante's Inferno. The wonky rat-bastard and badly designed air-con at work usually sees the temp hitting 24º by 11 am most days ... so the effect that has on me? Well, it usually feels like I'm in Tahiti, wearing a parka (zipped up, hood on), and eating my dad's famous Nine Alarm 'Habanero Hoedown' Facemelting Chili.

With no beer to wash it down with. Which is INHUMAN. At the very least they could let me rig up a draft tap on my desk. Next to the fan.

So yes – the other item I have on my desk, next to the digital thermometer, is an electric fan. This fan runs all day, aimed right at me, blowing the stuffy hot dusty office atrocity they consider "air" around me. This at least makes it somewhat tolerably comfortable, providing I don't move much, or drink too many cups of hot coffee. Or think warm thoughts. Or stare too long at that one girl down the hall there ...

What makes it even more absurd (and finally, here's the rumpus): many people in my office are sitting around, directly under heat vents, with multiple layers on, wearing outside jackets, touques (beanies) and gloves.

Seriously.

Yissss, my precious younglings. Go
forth into the world, and always
sit under heat lamps when you can!

How frickin' hot does it have to BE, people? Were you raised by lizards?!

Like any psuedo-superhero, I seem to come by a higher metabolic / thermodynamic "resting" setting genetically. My dad is always warm, too. Not quite to my newfound resting level of Vesuvius On A Bad Day. But he's warmer than most.

This is not traditional ice fishing garb. But you know, any
excuse for offering a photo of bikini-clad babes for my
friends to ogle while they pretend to read my Blog.

We used to go ice fishing when I was a kid. I'd have a layer less on than most kids my age. But my dad was a remarkable vision of superhuman abilities, in just one thin layer of long-johns, and a skidoo suit – but that suit would be half-unzipped and not really containing any body heat.

He wouldn't be wearing a touque. He'd fish bare-handed, too (no mitts) ... and often he'd scoop the newly-forming ice out of the augered hole (so the hole wouldn't freeze over and cut the line) with his bare hands.



I feel like I could do that now with just a light spring jacket on.

My dad also used to joke that he was so warm all the time, he'd sweat while he was swimming. I get that now. Not a joke. It's REAL, people!

This is more like what most people would wear while
ice fishing – maximum warmth for the minimal movement
involved with the game of ice fishing. Also, you would
NOT be surrounded by babes – even warmly-dressed babes.
Because as we dudes know, women find any weather that's
below 25º C,  cloudy, or even a bit breezy"freezing".
No matter what they're wearing.
So no. No babes for you, ice-fisher-boy.
The best you can hope for is MAYBE one other pal
willing to go out there on the ice and drink with you
while you attempt to catch fish on a frozen lake.

Lately too I've noticed with some bemusement that folks in Wellington view me as some odd absurdity, as I mosey around in short sleeved shirts on "winter" days here.

While it may be true that if I stood around outside all day in just a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, I would eventually maybe feel just a wee bit uncomfortably cold – but, it occurred to me at some point last year, after leg #2 went the way of the Dodo, that I'm never outside for much longer than 5 minutes during a normal weekly work day, during "winter".

I go outside my house in the morning and catch a taxi down to the closest bus stop (superhuman powers of sweat notwithstanding, I'm not quite up to walking such distances – yet). Total time being out in the elements: 1-2 minutes waiting for the cab. Then I'm inside said cab, where most drivers have the heat set at Let's celebrate my equatorial homeland! levels, AND are wearing a winter-type jacket, gloves, and beanie. So for that short (yet hot and sweaty) cab ride, I roll my window halfway down.

The standard attire for bus drivers in Wellington. This
is accompanied by a baseline heat setting of somewhere
between "steam bath" and "rim of a jungle volcano".

Then it's maybe a 5 minute (max) wait at the bus stop. This allows me to cool down a bit from the steam-room-like taxi ride ... but then of course it's on to the bus. Where most drivers are either Pacific Islanders, or women, or both. This means (1) the heat is cranked to walking-on-hot-coals-barefoot degrees, and, (2) said driver is also clad in what appears to be an furry astronaut suit for warmth.

While most bus rides in a 'normal' seat are a sticky, lurid, humid affair, I've learned NOT to sit on the seats that have the heaters directly under them. It's hot enough in a regular bus seat ... but if I sit on one of those with a heater under it, my jimmies are well roasted by the time I get to work.

Upon de-bussing, I'm only outside for another 15 to 20 seconds max, as I beeline for the coffee shop ... and then once suitably laden with warm caffeine and a muffin, I'm up the (hot) elevator enroute to my Sahara-like terrarium of an office.

So that's a winter's day for me – no need of any extra jacket or sweater for any time I'm outdoors ...  I occasionally even venture out for short strolls (15 minutes round trip) at lunch to "kill something and eat it" (well, OK, buy something pre-made and eat it).

On summer days, I do spend more time outside during the week. Mostly it's during longer breaks at lunch

A few of my workmates taking lunch in a dank, dark and dingy
office corner – the sort that don't go outside at lunch. You can
also see where Peter Jackson got the idea for some of his LOTR 'extras'.

and at coffee breaks ("morning and afternoon tea", as it's called here). I do this for two reasons: (1) It's really nice out, and if I'm in the shade, fresh air really rocks the casbah, compared to the recycled, stale, dusty, inert gas being passed off as air in the office, and (2) women of an eye-pleasing nature are outside strolling around. This is a much-preferred visual vista, when compared to the alternative – the sullen slouches, lumpy layabouts and traumatic trolls in my office. (OK, there are some nice, and nice looking, people in my office ... but when it's warm and sunny out, these attractive and nice people go outside at lunch, too. That leaves just the fugly and sullen types taking their sustenance inside. There must be something about daylight and fresh air on troll skin that isn't good for them).

So to wrap this up ... yes, much of my existence now is spent in quest of a cool place with fresh air and pleasing views to cast my gaze upon. (Which narrows it down to ... pub patios, with an umbrella to block the sun. And brisk table service).

No super powers seem forthcoming, sadly ...

... unless I can somehow figure out a way to extend my inherent thermodynamic powers to cooking things just by holding on to them ... or by making coffee by staring at the kettle from across the room ... or maybe something to do with ... drinking?

Oh hey, what do you know!!

This is even a Canadian concept!
Right up my alley!

And, of course, I'm still

Oh and if / when you tear your eyes away from the snowy bikini babes up there, be sure to have a gander at my pal Don's latest adventures over at Brew-ha-ha.

Seems he's been out gambling, to augment his drinking fun! Or is it the other way around ...

... and down the road at 'Shwa Stories, my other scribbling pal Glenn is eyeing up some cinematic shenanigans in Oshawa.

Until next time, if I can manage to stop sweating like a typhoid victim working on a forge in the jungles of Argentina at noon, I'm forever on the lookout for all things absurd.

Excuses

We all deploy them.

Excuses, or their 'slightly weaker cousin in a cheaper suit' – rationalisations.

They come in handy when we fuck up. Or forget. Or fail to achieve things that seem like "gimmes" or expected results.

I'll start with one right off the bat! It's been a few weeks since my last blog, because ... well, I've had shit to do ... I've been really busy at my real job. There was this deadline, see.

And it was raining. A lot.

There was a plague ... locusts! A flood! Then ... a fire!

The sun was in my eyes!

It wasn't my fault!

Two weeks ago, there was a boatload of Kiwis down in San Francisco harbour looking hard for some sort of excuse like one of those. Maybe even more than one.

There was this incredibly expensive, rich-guy's hobby-horse thing, see ... a little thing called The America's Cup. And the Kiwis lost. Bigtime. In the grandest fashion imaginable.

In perhaps the greatest choke of all time, in any sort of sport or self-inflicted bit of public humiliation, this boat load of 'expert' sailors went up 8-1 in a race where the winner was the first boat load of guys to win 9.

So, doing the quick math ... all they had to do was win ONE MORE. You know, like those eight OTHER times.

There was only one other boat involved. That would be the one losing, 8-1.

Then the wheels fell off the wagon (or the spinnakers fell off the mega-yacht's mast, as it were ...) and not only did the Kiwis of Team New Zealand blow 8 straight races to LOSE 9-8 ...

... the other boat-load of mostly-Kiwis (under the guise of being "Team America") had to come back from minus-2 at the start of the whole sordid affair, because they got caught cheating and were assigned two penalty points. (Cheating? Were they using a motor? Warp engines?)

So, in fact, Team New Zealand lost 11-8. After being up 8-1. There were two extra, added "IN YOUR FACE!" points in the tally.

Stand back – there is a big choking hazard here.

Can you say: all aboard the FAIL BOAT?! Hey, CHOKE MUCH?

There have been many teams and/or athletes who've choked on the verge of victory ... who have blown goats, sucked canal water, or just totally lost the plot, and choked SO hard, so as to lose what appeared to be a "gimme" of a winning series. But these guys ... hell, they lost so abjectly and stupendously bad, they temporarily made Toronto Maple Leafs fans forget about their 47+ years of absolute, consistent failure.

(It's never too early to put the boots in on Leafs fans!)

It seems there were NO excuses forthcoming from the big-money-boys who funded this expensive debacle ... nor from the skipper, or the sad-sack lot of meatbags on the boat posing as world-beating sailors.

And really, how could there be? It was broadcast daily in High Definition on TV for all to see. They just blew it. They folded up like a cheap lawn chair in the wind.

They were this close >|< to the finish line, and couldn't step over it.

It's a good thing the media-saturated public forgets about these things fast, and easily ... here in New Zealand, it's been two weeks since this outlandish whack of self-inflicted humiliation, and we're already off riding the high tide of an unbeaten All Blacks side as they approach one final game in the series to determine who wins a best-of tilt between NZ, Aussie, South Africa and Argentina.

Who cares about a bunch of rich losers in a boat anyway? It's the proven All Blacks, all the way now! They hardly ever lose ... mostly ...

Providing they beat South Africa tomorrow ... it'll all be in the bag.

But back to this yachting nonsense for a second.

There is one other particularly annoying thing about this whole America's Cup fiasco of a ... hobby? Yes, I'll borrow Neil Miller's wisdom and call it what it is. It's a hobby. It's not a sport. It's not even a game. It's a upper-class, rich-bastards time-waster of a hobby. It's a jaunty bit of "Look what we can spend our money on!"

Actually there are THREE things that are also annoying about all this. (Hey, I just woke up ... that's my story, and I'm sticking with it!)

(1) It's a thing that precious few people in the world can relate to, first-hand – because not many people can afford a massive, expensive thing like a yacht. Not many of us can even afford to buy a ticket to go for a ride on one.

So it's nothing like an actual sport like rugby, or hockey, or baseball, or soccer, where anyone can find a ball and an empty field (or a puck, a stick and a rink) and go out with their pals and have a go ... even as kids.

Kids in the poorest countries in the world will find a way to play a game of soccer. Some of those kids can (and do) grow up to be pro soccer players. But for lots of them, they start out playing with an old, hole-ridden, deflated ball, and no shoes.

To be a kid capable of going out to race a big expensive yacht ... well, being born into privilege in a first-world country is only part of it. You have to be that, plus, you need to live in a city near an ocean. Plus your parents have to be willing to fork out a bunch of dough for said yacht ... and, those parents also need to be willing to let you and your layabout, punkass friends to go out on said yacht, because chances are high you'd run the thing into something and sink it.

There's no way in hell most people in the world would have a chance to ... or even consider ... waking up on a Saturday morning to amass their pals for a bit of a jaunt on the high seas, speeding around in a hugely expensive racing yacht – against a bunch of OTHER rich kids with the same sort of yacht at their disposal.

This is a thing that – if you do indulge – that demonstrates you are clearly one of the top-echelon 1% rich-twit bastards of the world.

(2) The nerve of some marketing maven by calling this Team New Zealand boat "The

Good on you, marketing mavens. The "people"
actually bought into this travesty!

People's Boat"?! What "people" would this be? The middle-class working joes of New Zealand? The people on welfare? Even those of us with decent enough jobs to buy good craft beer?

How about ... NO!?

Man, kudos to that bit of marketing genius ... because many "people" here even bought into it!

Oh, the third reason?

(3) If we need any other proof that this is the lamest sort of hobby/event that tries way too hard to be taken seriously – there are the many and varied excuses wherein a race cannot go forward ... the things that can cause this 'hobby' to be delayed/cancelled make golf look like a hard-core, blood-spattered game with top athletes having at it, tooth, fang and nail.

This particular event in San Francisco got called off for things like "There's too much wind"; "There isn't enough wind"; and "Someone thought they saw a whale swimming around".

Seriously? Too much wind to race a boat that is propelled by ... wind? And ... A whale? They live in the sea, and that's mostly what they do?

A whale of an excuse ... not!

Those sentient sea creatures who are really good at avoiding being bumped into by a bunch of clowns in a sailboat.

That's the rumpus, right there. That ... is one of the lamest excuses yet.

Why not just tell it like it is ... clearly when that "Hey, I think I saw a whale in the harbour!" call went out, it was because some (or all) of the guys were too hung-over to be out racing on the water, because they were in Team New Zealand's boat, in the process of being soundly beaten, like rented mules ... caned like red-headed step-children, that you keep in the attic, because they owe you money.

And they were all pouty about it. And so they got drunk the night before. And now they're too sick and pouty and mopey to go out again today, and have their asses handed to them ... again. So ... yeah. A whale. Sure, that could happen. Let's call off this race, OK? Can't be going out there and maybe hurting a whale.

But on to more important things. Let's go All Blacks!

And as I'm publishing this blog the day before the All Blacks play the Boks ... I hope my next Blog isn't all about a bunch of lame excuses as to why the All Blacks lost.

This just in, you twerking
twerp. This is NOT sexy.
You look brain-damaged.
And infectious.

Oh one other thing that just crossed my newly-coffee-infused brain ... what is the excuse for this creature called Miley Cyrus all over the TV and the net? What appears to be a teenager who just grew breasts, and who is now hell-bent on showing them to us (not to mention her skinny ass, and, her biological-meltdown-cesspool of a tongue) is now news-worthy.

There seems to be NO excuse.

We need to nuke it from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

And hey! Don't forget to tune in to all things beery and fun over at Brew-Ha-Ha, where Don is always ready to serve up some suds-fuelled hilarity! And over at Shwa Stories, my mate Glenn has his finger on the pulse of all things Oshawa-ish! (Say that 5 times, fast!)



Until the next (ideally excuse-free) blog, I'm always, absurdly,

Thanksgiving

Ahh, Thanksgiving. As the name suggests, it means a time to give thanks for things.

It means slightly different things to Canadians and Americans. Same concept, just different timing.

The only places on the planet that celebrate this idea as an actual holiday are the USA and Canada. It is meant to mean "giving thanks for the fall harvest" ... not that very many Canadians and Americans are actually out there harvesting stuff, or even THINKING about that concept –  when they know they have a huge long weekend of drinking and misbehaving ahead of them.

Canadians have the first Thanksgiving of each year, in October. That's because our winter generally comes earlier than most of the USA's – and so, our fall harvest happens a bit earlier too. The USA celebrates their Thanksgiving later in November.

Many have said that's just too close to Xmas to be sensible. But then, many more just don't care. It's a long weekend.

Down here in New Zealand, there is no Thanksgiving.

So here's the rumpus. I'm implementing one here, and now – for me, anyway. So it's going to NOT be so much about harvesting, as it IS going to be about fun. (There's not much to harvest in spring ....)

As it's a lazy Sunday at home, and it's a nice warm spring day out there, I say now is as good a day as any to proclaim today, August 25th, KiwiCanuck Thanksgiving Day. For me, anyway. Feel free to drink along with me if you like!

And in the spirit of such a grand thing, I'm going to eat and drink, while I list off some of the many things I'm thankful for here.

As mentioned, this is going to centre around fun. Which of course means drinking, and the freedom therewith associated with said activity ... because, after nearly a baker's dozen years here (that means "13",  for you youngsters who don't know that old phrase) I still revel in all the little differences the drinking life offers me here, compared to Canada*.

*I'll tell one specific story here now, about how constricting, paranoid, senseless, and downright insufferable the drinking rules can be in Canada – so as to include some empirical evidence – to compare the good stuff of NZ life to Canadian fuckwittery: during one of my many trips to have fun in the famous BC ski resort town of Whistler, my mates and I had finished the day of skiing. And like clockwork, we'd kicked off the skis and took the 5 or 6 steps required to start drinking on the outdoor patio of a bar called "The Longhorn". The ski day finishes about 3 pm in winter months there, so you blast down the hill to arrive at the bottom around that time ... and in doing so, you have a good hour or so of daylight 'patio time' to enjoy a beer in the cool yet tolerable temperatures (providing you're still dressed in ski gear). Now when the sun goes down an hour later, so does the temperature, so everyone troops in to the inside of The Longhorn. Which on this day, we did. This of course resulted in a bit of a traffic jam at the one entrance for all us patio people ...  a double-door system with a small vestibule area between the doors of roughly 6' x 6' square dimensions. My mates and I all (of course) still had beers in our hands – which we'd purchased from the patio bar. Well, as my mates and I finally found ourselves far enough ahead in the line to be in said vestibule awaiting the doorman's approval for entry, he looked at the four of us holding half-finished beers, and freaked out. "You can't have beer here in this vestibule!" he suddenly barked. "We're not LICENSED for beer here in the vestibule!" Yep – we could drink on the big patio outside, we could drink INSIDE the bar, but not this tiny little 6' x 6' vestibule. Without skipping a beat, I said: "Well, you'd better let us in the bar then!" And he did. 

Just now, I was having a good yarn with my brother-in-(drunken)-arms, Don, over at Brew Ha Ha  ... and it reminded me why I found life in Ontario so distasteful. Besides the heinous climate, it's the omni-present and overwhelming nosy-parker-ness of that province's (and hand-in-glove, that country's) government, and their pesky rules. Like the beer one mentioned above. And that's just from a drinker's standpoint. If you're a clever and industrious person, they also have many silly rules to work through if you want to open a bar or a craft brewery.

The rules I cared most about in my youth, of course, are the ones that prevented MY specific fun. Or at least the ones that told me where, when and how I could have fun. Now I'm older and wiser ... and I also find myself caring about rules preventing people from setting up fun for me to have.

Specifically, here in New Zealand, I'm REALLY thankful for the much looser laws on where, when and how someone might want to open up a craft brewery, or a craft-beer-centric bar. It appears to be a basic and fundamental process. Want to open a brewery or a bar? Got enough dough and a good credit rating? Have at it!

The things I've found amazing here in the past 13 years (compared to living in Ontario, and to similar extent, living in Vancouver BC) go something like this.

In the past 6–7 years, there has been a multitude of new craft brewers cropping up in and around the Wellington area, as well as up and down both islands of New Zealand. And just as niftily (if that's a word), there have been an astounding number of pubs opening here that deal exclusively in said craft beer. And having these craft brewers and craft brew pubs crop up so rapidly, and so close to me, and consistently ... is FUN!

Meanwhile, back in Ontario, Don says the government has a hammer-lock on much of what happens there when it comes to breweries and pubs opening ... and hence, FUN ... and the one outlet to buy just beer, The Beer Store, has a similar hammer-lock on the rest of what happens.

A craft brewer can of course open up operations –  IF they work their way through the gargantuan pile of paperwork and permits ... spending assloads of money ... but then if that proves successful, getting their beer "out there" for the faithful to buy? Next to impossible.

That costs money – a LOT of money – to get shelf space in either The Beer Store, or the LCBO (the Ontario bottle shop that sells hard liquor, wine, and the more expensive imported and craft beers).  And those are the ONLY two places they CAN sell it, unless of course they somehow wrangled a much more difficult permit to open their own brew-pub.

Which would make it really neighbourhood-centric for potential sales.

Tyrion Lannister – short of stature, yet
large of  wit and beer swilling capacity.

Talk about a glass ceiling – and, a ceiling that's not very high at all. Like, Peter Dinklage (Tyrion) of Game of Thrones-fame high. (He's really short).

Now I know what you're thinking: "Hey Steve, what about approaching other established pubs around the province, and convincing them to give up a tap or two for your amazing new craft beer?"

Ha ha. Good one!

Two problems here: (1) No pub is not going to shut down a proven tap that's making them money, to take a chance on a newbie-brew, that's got butt-loads of flavour and aroma and intrigue about it (aka: a proper beer). And: (2) Convincing the general beer-drinking public of Ontario to try something that isn't one of the established, same-as-all-the-other-beers beers would be like finding hens' teeth. (Protip: Those don't exist).

You see, following Prohibition, beer drinkers in both the USA and Canada (and New Zealand!) were beset upon by the

Nope. No teeth here!

"Big Boy" brewing companies of their respective countries. These were the big-money boys who only cared about profit – like Adolph Coors, and the money-grubbing swine who run Budweiser and Miller, along with Canada's Labatt and Molson – the fat-cats, who rushed to build massive factories (calling these operations breweries would be an offense to actual breweries) with mass-produced, pale yellow, fizzy, tastes-the-same, additive-and-preservative-laced crappy liquid passed off as "beer",  that many generations of people have now gotten used to. So trying to convince Bud or Blue drinkers to try a properly-made, hand-crafted IPA or Stout would be ... impossible. (See: the chicken over there, and her lack of teeth ----->)

So Canadians (and to much the same extent, Americans) who want to try making proper beer have nearly-impossible hurdles to surpass. In the USA, they have a bit more leeway, but that's ONLY due to the huge population there (there's more folks among the small % of folks who might like proper beer) than in Canada. Not saying there aren't beer aficionados in Canada. But not nearly as many as in the Excited States of 'Mer-ca.

But back to New Zealand. Something happened after decades of big-boy brewers monopolising things here. Craft brewers sprouted not so long ago ... because suddenly there wasn't a government hammer-lock on the distribution of said beer! Not only do we have many and various craft brewers now, beavering away, making fantastic and creative styles of beer. We have many pubs now exclusively dealing to serving JUST those beers.

This is the brewery in my hood – Garage Project – and their
"tasting room".  Just to the left in this photo
are the beer taps, featuring all they have on offer. You may
taste them all, fill up a flagon/jigger, or buy
bottles or cans, once you decide on a style you like.

The craft brewers have more free reign here too (fewer rules to adhere to, or permits to get and pay for, than in Canada), in how they promote themselves. With very little (permit-style pesky) trouble, then can open up a "cellar door"* tasting-style room within their breweries – offering up samples of their wares to anyone who wants to drop by to taste them and see what they're like. Folks can also buy and fill large containers (flagons or "jiggers") of draft beer from these cellar doors, to take home and enjoy. Lately too, these small breweries are experiencing success ... and, they're growing a bit, and investing in bottling and canning machinery – so you can also buy their packaged goodness directly from them. And of course there are some breweries with brew-pubs attached.

*The cellar door concept was first a winery thing – which also happens here a lot – so why not breweries too? Why not indeed! And so it began ... and so I vastly enjoy visiting these things!

Here is the beer aisle at a grocery store near me. The cheap
mass-produced stuff is on the bottom; as you go higher up on the shelves,
the local craft and import beer is featured.
And around the corner from this aisle are a few more featuring wines.

But that's not the only place you can buy good craft beer here. We don't have state-owned (nyet, comrade!) beer and bottle shops. It's all free commerce, with privately-run shops. And, we can buy beer and wine in grocery stores.

And the freedom to grow for craft brewers doesn't stop there. All the aforementioned craft beer pubs are open and just hankering to put their stuff on tap. And a vastly growing craft-beer-consuming public is eager to see these new craft brews show up in their favourite pubs, too!

Now comes one of the most interesting concepts here in New Zealand, that just doesn't seem to be happening in Ontario (or anywhere in Canada or the States it seems). The craft brewers here LIKE and PROMOTE each other. So much so, that they've formed a common bond with a society: SOBA (the Society for Beer Advocates), which promotes all and sundry craft brewers and activities in the country.

And not only that ... we beer drinkers can buy an annual SOBA membership card for $40, which gives us discounts at all participating pubs and breweries, a couple of private bottle shops – and, first crack at beer fest and event tickets when they go on sale.

The craft brewers all bond together in a friendly brotherhood, with no one brewer trying to undermine the other ... they're united against one thing – mass-produced, bland, crappy beer made by the fat-cats that still have their long-time substandard beer operations going strong.

Established craft brewers rally 'round newcomers to the craft-brewing game to help them out, too. They talk them up on their respective FacePlant pages. They DON'T ignore, bad-mouth, undermine, or try to out-manouevre newbies when they show up on the scene. It just makes sense – one more new craft brewer is another player (for the good-guys' team!) on the field, in the big never-ending beer game.

The many and varied beer taps – and craft and import
bottles in the fridge – at Hashigo Zake.

Craft beer pubs do the same. Any new craft brewer is a new supplier to their operations ... one that's going to bring something new and interesting to the taps and the available stock ... so of course, newbie brewers are greatly encouraged. New beer launches from new brewers (and established ones) happen frequently here in craft beer pubs (craft beer emporium and Cult Beer Bar, Hashigo Zake, has a regular Tuesday night feature every week, with a new beer launch). These are sometimes intermixed with a "degustation" style event, with food matched to specific beers. Outside food merchants, like the fantastic Big Bad Wolf company here, are often happily conscripted to join forces in the fun.

What big TEETH you have – on that sausage!

And lately, there's been a really nifty concept called a "Tap Takeover" happening among the many craft brew bars in Wellington. This is a concept where a single craft brewer is invited in to a pub for a night, to put all their beer options on all the taps. Hence, 'taking over the taps'. The people from the brewery show up and talk up their products, chat and meet with beer drinkers. Oh, and they drink, too.  There are give-aways. Everyone is extremely happy at these fun events. How could anyone NOT be?!

The many excellent beers of the Epic brewing company
were festooned along the bar at the fine craft brew establishment,
The Malthouse recently ...  a "Tap Takeover", where EVERYONE wins!

Tap Takeovers are of course promoted via SOBA too, and other brewers' FacePlant pages. The other brewers (and their staff) will show up to a Tap Takeover and cheer the newbies on. The atmosphere of camaraderie is vibrant, and fun.

Other fun things I'm thankful for with the breweries here are the "customer appreciation" days that breweries sometimes do for us – a mostly-free day of beer drinking at a brewery. The last one I went to was a sensational day of beer drinking and BBQ-eating fun, courtesy of Tuatara Brewing. For the meagre pittance of a bit of cash ($10) to offset the busses they hired to take us to (and from) the brewery, it was a landmark day of maximum fun. We came, we saw, we consumed excellent beer and food.

And of course there are a number of annual beer fests here, where all the crafty breweries gather to offer up their wares under one (big) roof. We've just had Beervana, and not long before that, a midwinter (aka "Matarkiki") festival. Coming up soon will be an Octoberfest one. The fun never ends!

Beervana is an annual event here – and it
goes without saying, maximum FUN!

Mentioning all this fun (and the accompanying creative business-growing concepts) to Don at Brew-ha-Ha in Ontario today ... well, he ruefully admits no such things happen there.

The Canadian craft brewers suffer from being under the oppressive and expensive thumb of the state-owned distribution centres (all two of them in Ontario), and, from having precious few chances to ever crack existing pubs' established taps ... because it'd cut the pubs' guaranteed profits, and, a downtrodden beer drinking population with no sense of what good beer is wouldn't go for something new (that's actually OLD – the proper way to make beer).

And just as sadly, crafty brewers there in Ontario feel compelled to be in direct competition with each other ... there is no brotherhood of camaraderie and helpfulness among craft brewers like there is here.

It's beer-dog eat beer-dog there. And that's just completely counter-productive and senseless.

So yeah ... I'm hella thankful to be one happy funster – and beer-drinking camper – here!

And you know what ... in 13 years here, I've never been told I can't drink a beer in a tiny vestibule between two 'officially licensed' beer-drinking areas, by a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal of a doorman. Call me crazy, call me off the hook ... but that's something I never want to have happen again!

Three Boys make one hell of a nice
Oyster Stout. And I'm glad. Otherwise
I wouldn't get to make that fine pun there.

Things are just about perfect here in New Zealand for me.

The world is my osyter-stout, if you will.

And on that merry pun, I bid you all a hearty "Cheers!" ... and here's hoping that, no matter where you are, you can get your hands on some properly made, tasty, fine beer – without TOO much grief!
















Until next time, I'm still

... in absuridtum extremis!